The training of a Claw
by Xuan Tian Shang Di
Summary: A short story about the fifteen years of training that potential Claws must go through. This is set before the Night of Knives, before Laseen came to power, but continues into the very start of the NoK incident. Read and Enjoy, I don't really wright so please help to refine my style. Flames will be disregarded and laughed at. Rated T for some slight, tiny violence and my paranoia.


He was young, very young when he was taken from his family. Was taken the right word? How he longed to know if he had been sold or stolen, bartered for or stolen away in the dead of night. He would never know, he had left home, yes that seemed to be the correct term, at the tender age of four. He had been taken by the man, the man who now stood over him, barking orders at him, twisting his five summers old mind to the cause, the following of the orders of the Laseen and through her the Emperor, the dedication that came with being the ones who would strike from the shadows, clutching the daggers and poison that would bring the end of a life. It was only talk but it twisted his mind to the thinking that was desired of the Claw.

One summer later, he was being tested, ordered to force something open. They were ordering him to find a mental gate, to force it open and mold the power that was within, to make it his and command it as he desired. He tries to find the gate, not wanting to disappoint the people who had taken him off of the street and given his life a meaning, even if that meaning was to kill. Even though he tried so very hard he failed. Looking disappointed, the man who had been watching him gestured, a "come-hither" motion to the boy. He stood slowly and walked to the man who, now that he was close bore the mark of the Emperor, a High Mage by the look of his clothing. The man placed his hands on the boys head and proceeded to squeeze, gently and then with increasing pressure until he felt sure that his head would burst. Then the man eased up and shook his head, the boy felt disappointed, he had no Warren, not even compatibility for the Imperial Warren it seemed. While this fact was disheartening he comforted himself that he would train twice as hard as the Warren bearing members. He would receive a second chance surely, he had been selected from the many, many orphans who still, he assumed, littered the streets. That was the last thought he had as he felt a cold sting that grew in heat until he thought he would burn. Looking down he saw a thin, sharp blade protruding from his chest, the blade was removed and he fell back his last vision being that of a brooch on the man's left breast, a silver bird's claw gripping a seed pearl. Why did the Claw betray him like that?

Three summers later. A boy wake in a cold start, the Claw academy, if you could call the underground lair and academy, was a brutal, cutthroat place; any weakness would be sniffed up and eliminated. If this was not done by the Masters then the students were usually looking a practice dummy who would move about and struggle like any other victim would. This practice was not over looked by the Masters, who were on the constant look out for any blatant abuse the techniques that had been taught to them as a manner or ridding the empire of any threats, be they internal or external, commoner or Emperor, as this would demonstrate a lack of understanding for stealth, something that could be the cause for death in any of the missions of a Claw, such an offence would be punishable with death for the victim and harsh remedial stealth lessons for the perpetrator. At an approximate age of nine summers the boy had learnt the fear of poison, the dreaded possibility of being assassinated by his own friends. He had nearly failed the Warren test, but had an affinity for the Imperial Warren, the warren of travel for all official Claw business. That had saved him more that once, he could enter the warren with barely a thought now, the ability to walk safely to each class room and not have to worry about quarrels, knives, daggers or any of the physical traps that could be set for an unsuspecting initiate. The warren was safe, he reasoned, because no one would dare to risk the possible assassination of an Imperial officer. He dressed quickly, donning the brown cloak of a trainee and checking his pockets for scorpions, then entered the warren and made his way down for breakfast. He checked his gruel for glass, before adding a mixture from a bottle into his own food. This was an ingenious idea he had stolen from a tenth summer trainee, he had made a signature poison and immunized himself to it, from there he poisoned all of his meals personally, thus if a thief stole his then the thief would die and there would be one less contender for the position of Claw. He noticed that his meal tasted wrong, and as his mind looked for the problem his eyes drifted to the bottle. He froze, eyes wide, this bottle was slightly wrong; he didn't know how but…MOCKRA! That damn warren, manipulating the mind. There was only one Mockra Warren user in the academy, looking towards the boy he nodded once before his breath stopped and he fell into his gruel. No one noticed his death until the end of lunch.

Six summers later. M Warren user No.1 was happy; he was removing competition and making it seen like suicide. Being a warren user he had been awarded a name, not a good name though, more like a serial number. He had used his warren, the ability to hear and manipulate the thoughts, through illusions, to kill of those who could be a threat to him. Today would be the day that he and his fellows would be taught the Claw technique of thermal vision, seeing the temperature of a target. It was a difficult technique that would allow a greater chance of success during assassination missions. While the failure to achieve this was a great blow to their chance of being a successful Claw, it would not be punished with death as the failure to open the Imperial Warren was. He would succeed and he would become a successful Claw, he was built for infiltration and assassination, torture and interrogation, any from of mindreading and illusion casting could be a great boon for his master. His lesson was important and he would have to observe from the rafters, from his warren just to be safe. As he listened to the master speak he began attempting the exercises that were being ordered of them. He tried but could not master it, no matter though; he would practice until he succeeded. Soon the final exams would come and with it his advancement to a hand.

Five summers later. The day of the final exam. The Master assassin, Lord Dancer; creator of the Talon, assassin for the Emperor, would be observing them while Clawmaster Laseen gave them their final exam. There would be a knowledge test, a mixing of poisons and an explanation of their uses, a demonstration of three assassination weapons and of at least two regular weapons, including a sword. They would have to demonstrate their proficiency in climbing and agility, as well as a demonstration of the Imperial Warren and either their personal Warren or thermal vision. Finally there would be a cull, at least half of the potential Claws would die, except for three, one selected by the Clawmaster, one by the joint agreement of the Hand Leaders and one selected for the Talon, their predecessors as imperial assassins, by Lord Dancer. He hoped that he would survive, he had to survive for so that the Claw would continue, he didn't want to fight though. He was not a fighter, rather preferring to snipe at his targets with a small, compact crossbow with hollow darts filled with poisons. He was scared of death; he desired to bring death to his targets but feared the Hood's breathe.

One summer later. Laseen had risen, tonight they would strike. The Clawmaster would eliminate Dancer and the Emperor, and they would finally engage the Talon. They would strike without mercy, eliminating them all. He watched his Hand Leader gesture to him to open his warren, to look for the thoughts of the enemies, scanning for the Talon assassins. As he opened his Mockra Warren he rose, higher ground gave him better range. That was his final thought as a crossbow quarrel slammed into his shoulder, injecting the lethal poison. In his last moments the young man smiled at the irony, remembering back to his first kill, poisoning a fellow student. Feeling the Hood over him, he forced his Warren open, illuminating the Talon, surrounding them with fire, showing the Hand Leader, doing his duty. He knew nothing else.


End file.
